


But I Remember Her

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [22]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual!Christine, F/F, Genderbending, Lesbian!Raoul, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Epilogue: Raoul and Christine return to Paris, and look forward.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 13
Kudos: 24





	But I Remember Her

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the last installment of this fic! I can't believe it! I have grown to love this verse so so so much, and thank you to all who have left comments and kudos and talked to me over on Tumblr. 
> 
> Historical note: There are some references to 1880s French politics in here, Grevy, who is mentioned, was French president at the time. 
> 
> Finally, there is a sequel to this series entitled "When She Heard You Sing" which is now available. It will be multi-chapter rather than a series (which this should have been, but I was silly, and thought I wouldn't get so deep into the plot, at the start, but I did!) So if you subscribe to me, you should get updates when I post new chapters of that! 
> 
> Thank you for coming along on this journey with me, and I hope to see you when the sequel gets going!

It’s a crisp, clear autumnal day in early September when Raoul and Christine return to the graveyard.

They returned from their trip to Brittany just last week, finally willing—but perhaps not ready—to see Paris.

Paris has moved on, somewhat, from the scandal at the opera house. There are new subjects in the papers. People whisper about other things, talk about other people.

Paris has not, however, forgotten.

There are less invitations to things like parties and dinners and such, though more than when they left. People on their street look at them as they pass. No one dares say anything snide to Philippe directly, because he is still the Comte de Chagny, and that is no small thing, but some find the bravado to be rude to Juliette or Eloise or Raoul, or Christine herself.

The opera remains shut.

Christine tries not to think of any of that now, as she takes Raoul’s hand in the early morning light, with only the ghosts of this place to watch them.

And hopefully not any other, more mortal ghosts. Ghosts wearing a white mask and a black cape, singing softly on the wind.

They have not returned here, since that cold, snowy day in late January, but she will not allow herself to be afraid to come back here, to her father’s grave. She has been afraid too much and too often, and she will not let her fears rule her anymore.

Both of them tense as they step through the gates. Marcel has brought them much like he brought Raoul then, hired, now, to be their particular driver. Things were getting busy given that Pierre must tend to Philippe and now Juliette and Francois, who are living with them still, until they settle into their own house in Paris, loathe to be far away from their family after everything that happened. Francois is currently in Chagny, directing the packing of their things and shutting up the ancestral home. Christine hopes to visit, sometime in the next year. She’s not been to Bourgogne, and thinks she might appreciate the countryside.

They walk together through the cemetery, and Christine feels secure, with both hands full—one holding Raoul’s, the other holding a bouquet of flowers. They come to stand in front of her father’s tombstone. Quiet. Nervous.

But no one is coming to haunt them today, even if they’ll both always be a little haunted.

She squeezes Raoul’s hand, shifting the skirts of her dark green dress to squat down and place the white lillies against the marble.

“Hello, Papa,” she says softly, wishing she could show him the ring on her finger, the locket around her neck, wishing she could paint a picture of her and Raoul and send it up to the heavens so her father could see.

She’ll just have to trust that he does, anyway.

Raoul sits right down on the ground, her skirt spreading out around her like a pool of expensive navy-blue fabric. Christine joins her, watching as Raoul dusts some fallen leaves off the top of the grave with great care.

“Hello, Papa Daae,” she whispers, calling him what he insisted she call him as a girl, rather than the more formal _Monsieur Daae_ , and more affectionate than just _Gustave_. She leans in closer, like she’s sharing a secret with the dead. “I wish you could have been there,” Raoul says, her pinky stretching out to grasp Christine’s. “To see us marry. To see Christine on stage before that.” She looks over, a few tears glimmering in her eyes, and Christine is in love, and she will never stop being so. “To see how beautiful your daughter was. I’m still playing the violin you gave me, and Christine insists that one day I shall do so for a crowd, and not just her, or my family.”

“And she’s brilliant,” Christine adds, giving a little laugh. “You were a perfect tutor.”

She cannot say the word _tutor_ without thinking of her own.

She hears Meg’s voice in her head, questioning her that fateful night in the dressing room.

_I only wish I knew your secret. Who is this new tutor?_

Her tutor was the man who stalked her here. The man who claimed to be sent by the father she’s come to see. She sees the glass shattering on the ground from the powder flasks. She hears her own screams. The clang of Raoul and Erik’s blades ring in her head.

But still, there is no one here. No one but them.

At the sea, she never had to fear Erik appearing from behind a corner.

Paris is something else.

Perhaps he will remain true to the spirit of that letter he sent.

She hopes so, because with him gone, she is able to sort out her memories. She is able to sort out the precious few good ones she has of him, scattered among the bloody dripping horror and the pull of his voice as it washed her thoughts away.

She is able to remember the man who kissed her on the forehead, and let her go.

Erik was many things to her. Teacher. Angel. Tormenter, but he was never the warm, sweet father she misses now, even he claimed to be sent by him. He was never the Angel of Music she and Raoul whispered about as children, even if she thought he was once. Even if part of her still wishes that were true.

Grief can be a nefarious thing, and yet, you must let it come, or you will fall to pieces. But left unchecked, left without coping or comfort, it twists your mind into believing things it ought not.

That kind of grief made her believe in Erik. In his stories. In his lies that soothed her aching heart.

And in the end, grief set her free. His grief. Grief over what’d he done. Over how he hurt her, and Raoul.

Erik’s was a life full of grief, and it tore him up until the cruelty took over. It drew him to her and her grief, but instead of it connecting them, these two lost people, he cut her with it, instead. It could have been different. He could have been her teacher. Her friend.

He insisted on being something else. He insisted on _her_ being something else. Not just a wife but a muse. Not a person but his own doll. That night in the lair, he finally, finally saw her.

Her father, meanwhile, only ever wanted her to be happy. He only ever saw her, fully and completely, and that was why losing him broke her heart so spectacularly.

“There was a note, this morning,” Raoul says into the quiet. “From Andre.”

“Andre?” Christine questions, settling the flowers better against the grave. “About the opera?”

Raoul nods. “About the opera. And how he was interested in managing, still, but they’re having trouble finding anyone to do the job with him. The government is panicking—it cost a great deal to build that opera house. And he said…” Raoul stops here, oddly not just saying what she means. “Well he said he had someone in mind, to step into the role.”

Christine tilts her head. “Who?”

“Me.”

“You?” Christine asks, giving her full attention over now. “Really? I…do you want to?”

They have gone back and forth, about returning to the opera, never coming to a full conclusion given the uncertainty of its fate.

“I don’t know,” Raoul admits. “I…well I’m afraid, I won’t lie to you about that. Not exactly because I think _he’ll_ return, though of course I don’t know, but because of the memories. I…well I have those attacks of nerves and…”

She trails off, not as embarrassed by this as she was at first, but still reluctant to discuss it, often. The truth is they both have them, now, just differently. Christine’s burn slowly, her anxiety building and building until it finally releases, leaving her tired and worn out. Raoul’s are more more violent, coming up suddenly with shaking hands and and a sick stomach. It is, Christine supposes, a mark of the different ways in which Erik hurt them. Her, over time, and Raoul more abrupt and sudden, more focused on physical attack than a slow wearing down of mental defenses.

Christine takes Raoul’s hand, pressing a kiss to the palm. The sun cascades down over Raoul’s sandy golden hair, the braid twisted into a bun at the base of her neck. Raoul says all the time, _Christine you are so kind, Christine you are so sweet,_ but Christine cannot ever stop thinking about how _good_ Raoul is. How brave and how loyal. Raoul constantly speaks of how lucky she is, to have someone as talented and beautiful and spirited as Christine loving her, but Christine knows how lucky she is, too. When Raoul was ill and sleeping half the day, the thing Christine longed for most in the world was to hear Raoul laugh. She feels certain, that if they could bottle Raoul’s laughter, it might cure all the ills of the world.

Raoul settles herself, taking a deep breath. “Well, I don’t want to see the place fall to ruin, and you deserve a chance to sing again, if you wish it. And I know you do, eventually.” She looks at Gustave’s grave, a half-smile on her face. “It’s too much a part of you to give up.”

“I do miss it.” Christine keeps hold of Raoul’s hand, the other touching her father’s cold grave, though the longer she lingers, the warmer her skin grows. “But I want what’s best for us, first and foremost. And I…the idea of setting foot in there is both a dream and a nightmare.”

“I feel the same,” Raoul says. “I should think…” she shudders. “Well if I have any say, I would like to block off or reconstruct some of those lower levels. Whatever the cost.”

Christine shudders too, remembering that hazy, half-gone night in the lair. That voice. The memories and images she tugs from the depths of her brain, the puzzle pieces becoming clearer as time passes. She doesn’t know where Erik is, or if his Persian friend is in France or Paris at all. She wonders what Madame Giry knows, but dares not ask, not now, when she finally feels as if she is standing on steady ground. Meg’s mother does not seem to bear them ill will, only wishing to keep her secrets, whatever they are.

Except, those secrets have harmed her before.

Perhaps Erik has gone far from Paris, far from France, but he is not being hounded, wherever he may be, because the police have deemed the case unsolved, leaving it cold for months.

It’s only a ghost story, after all.

Christine tilts her head. “They would give that position to a woman?”

“It may have to be Philippe’s name on the paperwork, but the day-to-day business would be mine,” Raoul answers. “And they wouldn’t need to pay, which will make them amenable. If they cannot find anyone to take charge of a haunted place, the name _de Chagny_ will have to do.”

“I like the idea of making the opera house a home again.” Christine looks out at the sky, dawn hanging in the air and night not quite gone, making everything seem a little unreal. “Taking it back, so to speak. Even if…even if it scares me, too. We should think upon it, at the least.”

Raoul nods before gazing at Gustave’s grave, studying it like she’s searching for something before looking back at Christine.

“I hope you know it, but he would be so proud of you, Christine.”

Raoul’s voice is husky, and she clears her throat. It’s emotion, but it’s also a fact of life, now. The occasional shortness of breath when she walks too quickly. The little coughs if she laughs too much. Little reminders of that night despite the largely recovered health. It may fade and it may not, Dr. Aubert said, but the long-term damage was not terribly severe, for which Christine can only be grateful.

Christine tugs Raoul’s hand toward her chest, holding it tight as she adjusts the lillies on the grave once more. She’s hurting, still. She has more to work through, no doubt. But she feels strong. She sees the future in front of her.

And she feels alive.

She thinks of the day months ago. She thinks of the moments before Erik appeared and tried to break her revelations, her attempt at new life, and drag her back to the dark. Not just his dark, but hers. Theirs. She longed for the light, even when he first started teaching her. She always did. But the light frightened her. It frightened her because she lived in it once, and then her world shattered. The sun set, and it didn’t rise again. And if she tried to go toward the light, what if she only lost it once more? How could she bear it?

So she shared that darkness with her teacher. She shared that grief. And he thought that was love.

It breaks her heart, even if her rage at him is not gone. Her rage is not gone, and she has not forgiven him. Not for what he did to her, and not for trying to take Raoul away.

She does feel sorry for him. There is a corner of her heart that loves him, just not in the way he wished.

Maybe one day, she will stop being angry.

When Raoul showed up in her dressing room, it reminded her of how she craved the sunrise her teacher kept locked away. Of how she must risk pain to live at all. Raoul put her hand out, but Christine had to find the courage to take it. To walk toward the gold she saw shimmering at her dressing room door. She thinks of her words that day in this same spot, alone—or so she thought—with her father’s tomb.

_I want to try and be happy. I know you wanted me to be, and maybe if I try and live for you, one day I can live for me, too._

She thinks that day has finally come.

“I know,” she whispers, the words a prayer rising up with the sun, and she hopes her father hears them. “He’s proud of both of us.” 

* * *

As they stand outside of the opera house in the bright, noontime sun, Raoul’s hand trembles. She grasps the key tighter, Christine’s arm slipping through hers.

“Ready?” Christine whispers. She looks lovely in her yellow dress, her hair pinned up in the higher fashion, much to Madeline’s delight.

 _You will not go to the opera with that plait!_ Madeline protested when Raoul attempted to leave this morning.

Raoul relented, but she still wouldn’t let Madeline do it like Christine’s, insisting on something simple, and low, however unfashionable it might be.

“No,” Raoul says, Christine’s fingers grasping the fabric of her deep green jacket. “But I’m not sure I ever will be.”

She takes a deep breath, remembering the last time she saw this place, every memory coming in flashes of pain and blood and the very real feeling of not being able to breathe. It was dark, then. Midnight at least. But today the sun is out, she can breathe, and Christine is here. They’re both here, and the ghost is not. They’re going to Monmartre, after this, to the women’s club there, and if she can just get through the initial terror of this moment, she’ll have that to look forward to.

They walk up to the front door, and they’re the first ones here, so Raoul unlocks it, and the two of them step inside.

It’s the first time she’s heard the opera house sound quiet. You could drop a pin inside the grand hall, and hear it hit the floor. There’s no one and nothing inside, and the only lights are the sunbeams coming through the large windows. Their footsteps echo against the floor. Raoul searches the massive, opulent space, hearing the laughter and the popping of champagne the night of the masquerade, when this place was full of life. The night before any of them knew what was awaiting them, and finally, perhaps, _maybe_ , having forgotten the terrible crashing noise of a falling chandelier.

She hears her own voice from just afterward, speaking quietly into the early hours of the morning.

_This time, my clever friend, the disaster will be yours._

It ended up being so much more complicated than that. She realized it would be a few weeks later, when they stood in this same hall after Philippe’s bone cracked in two, Christine pulling Raoul to her chest as the opera ghost taunted them and Raoul _screamed_. Still, she couldn’t envision exactly what happened. Even Christine, who feared being taken away, didn’t predict the exact choice Erik laid at their feet.

Something creaks, somewhere. Echoes. Raoul slips an arm around Christine’s waist as she jolts, and she sees a thousand memories glimmering in Christine’s eyes, memories of an invisible voice that she’s still pushing out of her head.

“He’s not here,” Raoul says softly in Christine’s ear. “He’s not here, darling.”

As she reassures Christine, she reassures herself, too.

Both of them jump at the sound of real footsteps behind them, each giving a little yelp of surprise.

“Sorry, sorry!” Andre exclaims as they turn around. “I should have announced myself. I didn’t see you at first.” He clears his throat, giving them a smile. “Hello, to both of you. I trust your visit to the seaside was refreshing?” He glances down at the rings on their hands, and Raoul swears she sees affection in his eyes.

“Very,” Raoul says, giving her own smile as she pulls the signed paperwork out of her bag. “This just needs your signature, Monsieur Andre. As it turns out they did allow me to sign, as long as Philippe did as well. So I am officially a a manager, along with you. They say it’s probationary, and hinges on nothing else going wrong, but we shall prove it to them, in time.”

She took the idea to her family, upon receiving the note from Andre. Juliette and Francois thought it splendid, even though they admitted to some nerves over the idea of her returning. Eloise and Alexandre expressed reserve—it isn’t, as they noted, something women do—but Philippe, whom Raoul most needed to agree, brushed off worry over any scandal, believing it was not so different from her taking on patron duties, and giving them more say in the running of the place, which could not be a bad thing. One of his investments was doing well, and they might put some of those funds toward the opera house.

 _We will make Paris remember the good the name de Chagny did for the opera house, and make them forget they ever blamed us—wrongly—for the disasters there_ , he said, winking at Christine and Raoul. _That, and I’m sure sooner rather than later, they will be saying the name Daae with awe again._

Part of Raoul wonders if he agreed so easily just to make her happy. Philippe watches her, now, more than he ever has, as if he fears a ghost might tear her away without warning. She should buy him some cigars, while she’s out, and sneak out onto the portico tomorrow, and smoke with him. Juliette will chide them, and it will make Philippe laugh in the way Raoul loves best, that deep rumble of delight.

Andre takes the papers. “I assume the powers that be were not terribly pleased at the idea?”

Raoul laughs, and Christine does too. “No. But as they want the opera open and no one wanted to take charge, they were more than willing. I don’t think the public would take it very well if the government washed millions of francs down the drain and left them without. Grévy has enough to be going on with, given the legislature cannot come to an agreement on anything. At least Paris can have her opera back.”

Andre’s about to answer when there’s a high-pitched, pleased greeting echoing through the hall.

“Christine!” Carlotta exclaims, with all the power of a soprano. “Dear, let me see you!”

“Carlotta,” Christine says warmly, all the previous tension between them utterly forgotten.

Christine’s swept up into an embrace as Raoul shakes Piangi’s hand, the two of them sharing a look, knowing they’ve been through something rather similar.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me, Raoul,” Carlotta tuts, seizing Raoul next and pressing a kiss to each cheek. She pulls back, giving Raoul a wink. “I see you are to be in charge now? Finally, a woman helping run this place, a miracle, I tell you!” She frowns, though it doesn’t stick. “I assume you will not play favorites with your Christine?”

Raoul chuckles. “I shall try, signora, but I think you are both willing to share the spotlight, yes?”

Carlotta laughs uproariously, patting Raoul’s cheek. “Yes, I am. Ubaldo says he can help train some of the new tenors, and such, if you’ll have him.”

“Oh, that’s delightful,” Christine cuts in, pressing Piangi’s hand, and Raoul knows how grateful she was to him, for his grace as they rehearsed Don Juan. “I’m sure you’ll have much to share with them.”

Piangi smiles, shyer where Carlotta is loud, and they made a good couple, Raoul thinks.

“Is Giry set to return?” Carlotta asks. “And Monsieur Reyer?”

“Both,” Raoul tells her. There’s the sound of footsteps, and she looks up, seeing Meg coming in through the door. “And here’s Meg now. Is your mother with you, Meg?”

“Not today, she sends her apologies,” Meg says cheerfully, coming over to embrace Christine and kiss Raoul’s cheek. “She’ll be here next week, for the first discussion of what we’ll be putting on, but she had to settle some things in our new flat, this morning.” Meg spins around with a ballerina’s grace, gazing with awe at the opera house. “I have missed this place,” she says, grinning at the rest of them. “Monsieur Andre, it’s good to see you.”

“And you, Mademoiselle Giry.” Andre smiles at her, raising his eyebrows. “You know, I had word that La Sorelli is set to be married and is opting not to return, so perhaps you could set your eyes on being the prima.”

Meg claps her hands together, giving a squeal of delight, and assuring them all that she will audition fairly of course, but would certainly like to try.

“Sorelli slipping right through Philippe’s fingers,” Raoul murmurs in Christine’s ear. “That sneak. He must have known. I suppose he’ll have to find someone new to dally with.”

Something twinges in Raoul’s chest, wondering if Philippe missed his chance with his on again, off again mistress while being away looking after her. Christine, seemingly sensing this, whispers back.

“Philippe knows what he wants,” she says. “And that is apparently to flit about to his heart’s content with women who feel similarly. Not everyone is a hopeless romantic.”

“You mean like me?”

“Hmm,” Christine replies.

Raoul quirks an eyebrow. “Not you, though? You’re perfectly practical?”

Christine looks over at their friends—even if not all of them started out, that way—and then back at Raoul, that bright, mischievous smile Raoul knows so well playing at her lips. The smile that was lost, and then found again.

“Oh yes,” she teases as she steps into the pool of sunshine by the window, the light making the crystal on the ornate gas lamps glitter. “Very practical. No one could every accuse me of possessing a dreamer’s heart.”

She belies this by taking Raoul’s hand, leading her up the staircase and into the grand foyer, the sound of their friends’ laughter trailing behind them. She playfully pushes Raoul toward one of the columns, giggling when she presses her up against it. She leaves little streaks of pink behind as her lips brush across Raoul’s neck.

“Mademoiselle Daae,” Raoul chides with put-on sternness, lifting her chin to give Christine better access. “What will the gossips say when they find out the opera’s favorite ingenue is dallying with the new manager?”

Christine stops to stroke Raoul’s cheek, looking sly. “They’ll be jealous they didn’t get to you first.”

For the thousandth time since that night of Hannibal, Christine Daae makes Raoul de Chagny blush.

They kiss beneath the expensive frescoes and the dozen golden chandeliers lining the hall, and there are no shadows, now. Even if the voice of an angel, a phantom, a ghost, echoes through their memories, no such specter appears in their line of vision. Nothing is hidden here, to haunt them.

It’s not the phantom’s opera, anymore.

It’s theirs. 

* * *

Christine always said she would see Raoul play the violin in public, and the night the opera opens, she gets her wish.

They’re doing an encore of Hannibal to appeal to Paris’ nostalgia, to bring back a performance everyone talked about for weeks after. Carlotta and Christine are set to play Elissa on alternating evenings, and Christine goes first.

Except the second chair violinist falls ill the morning of.

 _I couldn’t possibly_ , Raoul insisted. _I’m not…I’m not to the level of the others in the orchestra._

 _You’re easily good enough to step in for the second chair_ , Christine argued, determined. And when Christine is determined, she usually wins out. _You know the music, you’ve been here for every rehearsal. I know you can do it. I won’t make you. But I do believe in you. You’re a musician, Raoul. Just like me. You only need to realize it._

So here Raoul is, a half hour before curtain, with Gustave Daae’s violin in her hands. People are whispering, and a few of them point at her and she feels her breath catch in her chest, because she’s everything she’s not supposed to be. A wealthy—and in their eyes, unmarried—woman, carrying on a romance with an opera singer that everyone now inevitably knows about. A woman in a position that most feel only a man should hold, in helping run the opera. And now she’s in the orchestra pit for all of Paris to see, flaunting a half-dozen scandalous things.

She tries to remember the girl she was that night over a year ago, when she walked back into these very halls, falling under the spell of the plush red seats and the magic in the air. That girl would have laughed at the idea of people whispering about her, and continued on. There is more to it, now. More danger that she cannot laugh at, but she _will_ laugh, a little.

The things that happened have changed her, but she will not forget that girl. She will always, in some part, be her.

Whatever the nightmare she went through, her soul is her soul, and it remains unaltered.

She spots Celine and her husband, each of them giving a wave. She looks up, spotting Philippe, Juliette, Francois, Eloise, and Alexandre in Box 5 of all places. Philippe beckons her over so that she’s standing below the box, and he tosses a single red rose over the edge with a grin.

Raoul catches it.

 _For you_ , he mouths, giving her a wink.

She dashes back over to her chair.

The curtain rises.

As Raoul places the bow against her violin, Christine steps out onto the stage. She looks nervous for just a moment, no doubt wondering what the audience is thinking of her. She looks beautiful, ethereal, just as she did that night. More so, a new confidence making her face shine.

As Raoul plays the first note on her violin in tune with the rest, Christine sings her first note.

Raoul thinks of the girl she met by the sea, that voice of an angel she heard. She thinks of the woman standing by the same shore so many years later, laughing as Raoul pushed her gently into the water, the sun spilling down on them both.

Dozens of images flit and dance across her memory, all of them holding a slightly different version of Christine, and each making her smile.

She chances a glance up at her wife on stage, and when their eyes meet for just a fleeting second, she falls in love all over again.

She thinks of that night once more, and her question to Philippe, that night when the little girl from Brittany stepped out onto stage, all grown up, those chestnut curls and those bright eyes and that _smile_ ringing in Raoul’s memory like the perfect piece of music.

_Do you think she would remember me?_

She grins to herself, and as Christine’s song swirls up into the air, Raoul doesn’t miss a single note.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out the sequel to this series, "When She Heard You Sing!"


End file.
